


I am a collapsing star with tunnel vision but only for you (I will protect you)

by TooRational



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Broken Bones, Cuddling & Snuggling, Discussion of an overdose, Dorks in Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Hospitals, Hurt Pete Wentz, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, Kissing, M/M, Podfic Welcome, Protective Patrick Stump, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:26:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22144060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational
Summary: It happens between verses, on an inhale Patrick takes before letting loose on the chorus.Joe's to his right shredding on his guitar, the sound of Andy's drums is enveloping Patrick from behind, and Pete's doing his jumping and headbanging thing to the left. It's a show like a hundred others; a thousand maybe.And then there's a weird vibration under Patrick's feet.A loud crack follows — or it should have been loud but it's barely heard over the music — of something splintering,giving in, and simultaneously with it comes a startled yelp over Patrick's earphones, a sound Patrick knows like his own heartbeat.He looks to the left and sees the stage swallow Pete,fold over himlike a giant, hungry maw.And then he's gone.Or: the 'Pete gets hurt during a show and Patrick kind of loses his mind' fic that ate my brain.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 45
Kudos: 133





	I am a collapsing star with tunnel vision but only for you (I will protect you)

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say for myself. This is incredibly self-indulgent but I'm not sorry. ♥
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Lies, untruths, complete fabrication, made for fun. Imagine we're in an alternate universe in which a butterfly batted its wings and, like, something something *mumble* ~LOVE! Blessings on all these lovely people and their loved ones, may they live in happiness and health for a very, very long time. (And if you dare bother them, I'm personally going to kick the shit out of your disrespectful ass. You've been warned.)

It happens between verses, on an inhale Patrick takes before letting loose on the chorus.

Joe's to his right shredding on his guitar, the sound of Andy's drums is enveloping Patrick from behind, and Pete's doing his jumping and headbanging thing to the left. It's a show like a hundred others; a thousand maybe.

And then there's a weird vibration under Patrick's feet.

A loud crack follows — or it should have been loud but it's barely heard over the music — of something splintering, _giving in_ , and simultaneously with it comes a startled yelp over Patrick's earphones, a sound Patrick knows like his own heartbeat.

He looks to the left and sees the stage swallow Pete, _fold over him_ like a giant, hungry maw.

And then he's gone.

Someone screams, a wall of agonized sound rises from the audience, and Patrick just blinks stupidly, frozen in disbelief.

No, this...

A second stretches like molasses, then a jolt of fear and adrenaline slams into Patrick's veins like a sledgehammer and he bolts towards Pete, Joe at his heels.

He hears a thud that must be Andy vaulting off his high ground and towards them, but he spares no thought to it, just throws his guitar to the side before skidding to a stop next to the hole.

" _Pete!_ "

The name echoes, loud and jarring in the sudden quiet of ten thousand people not daring to take a breath, and Patrick realizes the scream came from him.

Pete's in the space beneath the stage, unconscious ( _please_ , God, _please_ let him just be unconscious and not— not— ), arm lying at a sickening angle, blood covering half his face like a grotesque mask. There are roadies already next to him, probably ran over from all around the stage, but they aren't touching him.

It's probably smart, it's what they were trained to do, but all Patrick sees is _no one helping Pete_.

He surges forward to climb down, to help, to do _something_ , but finds that he can't move, arms like vices around him.

It's Andy, murmuring, 'Patrick, Patrick, wait, they're helping him, look, you can't go down there, it's okay, he's going to be fine', and Patrick would believe him if Andy's voice didn't shake, if Andy's heart didn't beat just as fast as Patrick's against his back.

Joe is clutching Patrick's forearm so hard he can almost feel the bruises forming.

The paramedics arrive in a flurry of activity, the minutes stretching long and terrifying before they pronounce him in a stable but serious condition.

 _Of course_ , Patrick thinks. _He hit his head and he's still unconscious._

Patrick waits for the relief to kick in, but it's nowhere to be found.

He is numb.

A trip to the hospital is inevitable, and Pete's secured to a gurney and wheeled off in no time.

"Let's go," Joe says as he pulls at Patrick, and they're all sprinting off the stage at a breakneck pace, arriving in front of the ambulance in no time.

"Sorry, only one of you can go with him," says the paramedic while they're loading Pete into the ambulance (pale, he's so _pale_ ).

Patrick hesitates for a second because Pete might be his best friend, and he and Pete might be twins with how connected they are, but Andy has as much right as him. He's known Pete longer, was with him through thick and thin, and—

"Go, we're right behind you," Andy says, and Patrick is so grateful he can't even talk.

He climbs into the back, sits into the seat the paramedic points at, and grabs onto the closest part of Pete he can reach: his ankle. Pete stirs but doesn't wake up, face ashen where it's not smeared with blood, unnaturally still.

The wail of the siren on the way to the hospital is deafening.

*

Once Pete's taken into the ER, Patrick is left standing outside the door, shivering from the cold sweat, clutching a clipboard with forms to fill out that was handed to him.

He doesn't have a pen.

Hell, he doesn't have _anything_ on him but the clothes on his back.

_Fuck._

They left the venue, the fans, all those people.

Patrick should deal with it, should find a way to fix it, but all he can think of is Pete's bloody, pale face on the gurney in the back of the ambulance.

Please, _please_ let him be okay. Whatever deity does or does not exist out there, have mercy.

A huge, icy fist is squeezing Patrick's chest, the cold spreading to his brain, paralyzing him.

His vision ripples and he blinks, _hard_.

 _What the fuck happened_ , he wonders in a daze as he lowers himself into a waiting room chair.

Andy and Joe come in a few minutes later and head straight for Patrick.

He hasn't moved since he sat down.

"Here," Andy says, and hands him a new t-shirt and a sweater.

"Th-thanks," Patrick says through chattering teeth, clutching the clothes to his chest, next to the clipboard.

They've both changed, too, and Joe's holding all their phones and their Medical Emergencies folder.

 _Oh, that's smart_ , Patrick thinks absently.

"Hey," Andy says, voice a bit muffled, as if coming from a long distance. "You should change."

Patrick blinks at him, then looks down.

Right. Clothes.

He should change.

"The bathroom's over there," Joe points, a frown on his face.

"I'll fill that out," Andy says, and takes the clipboard from him.

Patrick nods, stumbling a little over letting go of the clipboard and holding on to the clothes.

His fingers feel thick and clumsy.

Joe helps him out.

"Okay, I'll just…" Patrick says, and they both nod.

"Here, eat this while you're at it," Andy says as he puts a chocolate bar into his hand. He pats him on the back, nudging him towards the bathroom.

Patrick leaves obediently.

*

"What _the fuck_ happened?" he asks, once he's back from splashing his face with water and eating his chocolate, and once his brain has managed to get back online.

And with it came flooding in an absolute, immense _rage_.

Because Patrick is going to have _blood_ for this.

Someone didn't do _their job_ properly, and it almost cost Pete _his life_.

And that? That is so _unacceptable_ , so out of this world _infuriating_ , that it might as well be a crime punishable by death.

Pete would say it could have been worse, that fans could have been caught up and more people hurt, but to be brutally and selfishly honest, Patrick can barely imagine a worse thing than what has already happened.

Pete hurt in a serious, life-threatening way is… inconceivable. Unimaginable. Horrifying.

"Someone— _several_ someones have apparently failed to do their _fucking_ jobs, and now Pete is in the hospital and I want to know _what. the fuck. happened_ ," Patrick growls.

He's aware Andy and Joe probably haven't got much more information than he does at this point, but he's at the end of his rope and 'calm' is as far out of his reach as the Moon right now.

"No one knows yet, not exactly. I sent a message to Dirty and he says the section of the stage that Pete was on collapsed, but as for why, who the fuck knows. It's not our crew, though, that's for sure. They weren't involved in any actual constructing, everything was already set up when we arrived," Joe says.

Patrick nods gratefully at Joe and continues his pacing.

It's not like Patrick doubted their own people but it's still a relief to hear they had nothing to do with it. Negligence from someone close by, from practically within their own extended family, would have been horrible.

"Wait. Has anybody been around? A nurse, a doctor, anyone?" Patrick asks.

"No, but they'll be here as soon as they have any information. I filled out the forms and gave them the power of attorney document," Andy says.

They're all listed as each other's emergency contacts, and they've paired up for convenience for the power of attorney thing: Andy and Joe, and Pete and Patrick. It made sense considering how much time they spent on tour, and how long it would take for a family member to fly in to wherever they're playing. It's not like they're not family anyway. They've been together long enough to not only know, but _witness_ most of each others' medical emergencies. Secrets are few and far between them.

They've never had any reason to use the paperwork after the hiatus, though. Not until now.

"Okay, good," Patrick says inanely.

He'd say more but he can't _think_. The walls keep closing in on him from all sides. He's tired, and twitchy, and he wants to sit but can't stand the inactivity.

So he paces, and paces, and he knows he's driving Joe and Andy insane but he can't help himself.

"Family for Peter Wentz?" says a tiny woman in scrubs, and they all startle, then flock to her.

"Yeah, we're his bandmates, his family is not here, we're on tour, but I've got power of attorney, I'm, my name's Patrick Stump, and, um, what's… what's going on?" Patrick babbles out in a single breath.

Andy grabs his hand and squeezes.

Apparently, Pete has a concussion, some cuts and bruises, and a broken arm. He's been wheeled off to surgery since the arm broke in an awkward way and they have to operate to set the bone properly. Barring any unexpected complications, he should be out of the surgery in a few hours.

That's it.

No comforting words about his state, about how he feels, no prognosis for recovery, _nothing_ but a curt 'you can see him for a few minutes when he's out of the surgery'.

Patrick shivers and draws the sweater a little tighter around his shoulders.

They thank the doctor, sit on the damn chairs, and wait.

Both Andy and Joe leave and come back at various points, off to the bathroom or to get snacks.

A few guys from the crew stop by, let them know everything is taken care of, as much as possible. They tell them to say hi to Pete, then leave.

The minutes crawl by.

Patrick hopes everything is going well with the operation. The doctor said they won't put him all the way under, just a local anesthesia, so he'll be awake for the procedure. It's also not as dangerous.

It doesn't stop Patrick from imagining a thousand nightmare scenarios.

What if Pete is allergic to the medicine? What if he goes into shock and flatlines? What if they make a mistake, cut an artery, and he bleeds out? What if he's in pain and can feel everything they're doing to him but can't tell anyone? What if they forget some sort of instrument or a sponge or something inside, and Pete grows septic and dies? What if—

"I called Pete's mom," Andy says abruptly.

"Oh," Patrick says, guilt at not thinking of that himself pinching at his conscience.

God, what is he _doing_? Just sitting here, paralyzed, _useless_ , while Andy and Joe do everything Patrick should be taking care of?

This is not like him. Patrick is usually the level-headed one, sometimes even giving Andy a run for his money. He's the one the three of them would call for bail money, they've said it a million times; he's the boring, responsible one.

So why the fuck is he _falling apart_?

"Good, that's, um, good that you thought of that. What did you say?"

"Just that Pete got hurt but nothing serious, a concussion and a broken arm. I said I'll get back to her with more information tomorrow."

"Good," Patrick says again.

And back to waiting.

A nurse comes out to tell them the operation went well and they'll transfer Pete to a private room soon. They can go in and see him, but only one at a time, and just for a few minutes. It's clear they're doing it out of the goodness of their hearts, since they waited for so long and it's almost 4 am and fairly quiet.

Somehow, Patrick finds himself in Pete's room first.

He has no idea how he got here.

"Hey," Pete says from the bed, arm in a cast and sling on his stomach, a wide, loopy smile on his face. There's a bandage on his forehead, an IV and a heart monitor clip attached to his unbroken arm, and a hematoma circling his left eye.

He's also quite obviously high as a freaking kite on painkillers.

"Hey, Pete," Patrick manages.

His voice comes out deep and scratchy. He hasn't talked in a while.

"Hiiiii, Patrick," Pete says, clicking the 'ck' in Patrick's name with relish.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm fiiiine," Pete says, and wriggles the fingers on his broken arm a little. "Oww, hurts, but that's ok, iss broken, issa'posed to hurt. I'm okay, can't keep me down. Thought it'd be soooo easy ta get rid of me, huh? Naaah, better luck next time."

And he _laughs_.

It might be the carelessness with which Pete talks about his own mortality.

It might be the fact that Patrick just spent the last four hours scared out of his _mind_ , imagining all the ways Pete is going to leave him, leave all of the behind.

Or it might be the laugh, which sounds mocking and carefree, like something that would come out Pete's mouth when he was at his most self-destructive and self-absorbed.

Whatever it is, it clicks a switch in Patrick he wasn't aware of, that he thought he _grew out of_ years ago, and his vision floods with rage-red.

"Are you _fucking_ _kidding_ _me_? We've all just spent _hours_ worrying about you, sitting in that _fucking_ waiting room and hoping you aren't going to be _paralyzed_ or something, and you're _laughing_? Don't you care— How can you— I can't _believe_ you—"

Patrick _chokes_ on the furious shout that's climbing up his esophagus, still in control enough not to want to make a scene, but _only just_.

Pete blinks at him slowly, smile long since faded into incomprehension and hurt.

"Don't be mad," he says plaintively, eyes huge.

It's the kind of face a much younger Pete would make, the tortured and self-flagellating version of him, and the dichotomy makes Patrick pause.

"Don't be mad, _please_ , Patrick," Pete says again, and to Patrick's horror starts struggling with his IV and covers, trying to reach Patrick.

All of Patrick's anger vanishes in a wave of panic.

"Pete, _no_ , stop that, you're going to hurt yourself—" Patrick says as he moves forward, takes Pete's hands in his and pins them to the bed gently.

"I'm not mad," Patrick says feebly, but Pete is _gone_.

Nothing is getting through to him because he's in a whole other country mentally, mood spiraling so fast that Patrick feels dizzy.

"Yes you are, you are, I know you are, I _know you_ , I _know_ ," Pete chants over and over, and goosebumps form on Patrick's arms.

"You can't be mad, can't be mad, Patrick can't be mad, he'll leave, he'll send me away, jus' like mom and dad, I have to— let me up, I have to stop him, let me up LET ME UP—"

Pete buckles and surges up, as does the sound of the heart monitor, climbing faster and faster and well on its way to a screech.

Patrick stupid brain can't think of a _single thing_ to do.

"Pete, I'm here, I'm _right here_ , I'm not going away, I'm not mad, _I promise_ —"

"Noooo nononono—" Pete cries out, closed eyes leaking tears, looking _inconsolable_ , and it hits Patrick straight in the chest, heart cracking in two.

Desperate and without the slightest idea how to fix this absolute _shit_ he started, Patrick lets go of Pete's hands, bends over and cups Pete's cheeks and gathers him towards Patrick, into the crook of his neck where it's dark and quiet.

"It's okay, Pete, love, it's okay, I'm here, I'm not leaving, I'd never send you away, not ever again, I promise I promise, hey, _hey_ , shhh, ..." he whispers, over and over, into Pete's ear.

Pete is still upset, breathing hard and choppy, fingers grasping at Patrick's t-shirt without coordination, sliding off and grabbing again, and Patrick wants to _cry_.

Why did his open his big, stupid, _thoughtless_ mouth? Pete just got hurt, probably has a concussion and who knows how many cuts and bruises, he's out of his goddamn _mind_ , and Patrick thought _this_ was the time to— to _what_? Discuss Pete's self-deprecating jokes? Get mad at the man for getting hurt in the first place?

What _the fuck_ is _wrong with him_?!

Pete whines, a tremor going through his body, and Patrick hums thoughtlessly, gathering Pete into more of a hug.

"It's okay, you're okay, I'm right here, don't cry, _please_. We'll never be apart again, I promise, _I promise_ ," he says, barely audible.

Pete still hears him, of course.

He always does.

"Promise?" Pete asks.

"Yeah, Pete. I promise."

"Even if I'm bad? Even— even if I piss you off a lot or somethin'?"

_Fuck._

Trust Pete to be tenacious even when drugged to the gills. And brutally honest.

"You're _not_ bad, Pete. _Not even a little_. But yes, even if you piss me off."

Pete lets go so he can peer into Patrick's eyes, golden brown irises just a thin ring around the pupils.

"Really?"

"Really," Patrick says, somehow finding the strength to mimic a smile. "Now go to sleep, everything's gonna be fine."

"'Kay," Pete says with a kind of unshakable trust Patrick isn't sure he deserves. Not after what he just pulled.

Pete kisses Patrick's chin clumsily, says ' _'kay, Trick_ ' again, and passes out in less than five seconds.

Patrick swallows and _swallows_ the tears that are threatening to burst out.

He has to keep doing it for a long time, so he watches Pete breathe, pets his hair in endless, repetitive motions. There's a tiny version of Patrick screaming its ass off in the back of his head, but as long as Pete's in front of him, as long as Patrick's _touching him_ , it's gonna be fine.

Maybe, against all odds, everything will be fine.

A nurse comes in, checks on Pete, and says: "I'm sorry, I can't let you stay much longer."

Patrick nods.

Time to get a hold on himself.

He kisses Pete's cheek once, twice, and whispers into his ear, "I'll be back soon. You rest. You have to get better."

It's useless. Pete can't hear him.

He steps back, takes a deep breath, touches his cheeks (dry), and goes to get Andy and Joe so they can have their turn.

*

"You have to go back to the hotel to change and rest."

"No."

"Patrick," Joe says, half-threatening and half-pleading.

" _No_. I'm not leaving him all alone in a fucking _hospital_. How is this even an issue, what are you _talking_ about? You know he hates the fucking sight of hospitals, let alone _staying_ in them. He already freaked out once, what if he does it again and seriously hurts himself?"

"Patrick, he's on _really_ strong medication, he'll sleep for at least twelve hours. Go to the hotel, shower, change, get some sleep. We'll stay here. We won't let anything happen to him, swear to god. And we'll call you if we need you _or_ if he wakes up, okay?"

Fucking _fuck_ Andy and his reasonable brain.

Patrick wants to say no, he really does, but he's covered in dried sweat and what feels like phantom flecks of Pete's blood all over, and the scent of the hospital in his nose is so intense he's starting to get nauseous.

He checks his hands for red stains.

Clean.

But he can _feel them_.

"Okay, _fine_. But you have to _promise_ to call me if anything happens. If he wakes up, or a doctor comes in with an update, or _anything_ — and I mean _anything_."

"Yes, Patrick, we fucking swear. Now _go_ ," Joe says.

Patrick goes.

*

In the hotel bathroom Patrick takes out his contacts and splashes water onto his face. His eyes feel better immediately, though he'll have to remember to take his eye drops with him when he goes back to the hospital. They're already gritty, and he doesn't foresee a lot of sleep in the future.

He reaches for the glass at the sink to quench what feels like the desert forming in his mouth and fumbles, managing to drop it.

It shatters, shards spraying his legs and scattering everywhere, and it's the last thing Patrick needs right now, _fuck_ , what is he supposed to _do_ , he won't be able to pick up all the pieces, he doesn't even have a broom or gloves, for god's sake, _how_ is he supposed to _fix this_ , he _can't,_ it's fucking _impossible—_

A sob punches up from his chest, one too large to swallow, and once it's out, the floodgates not so much open as get _obliterated_.

His legs give out and he falls to the floor, muffling the keening sounds with both hands folded over his mouth, but it doesn't help, _nothing_ can help, because Pete's in the hospital, he's _hurt_ , he could have _died_ , and everything inside Patrick revolts at the mere _thought_.

It hurts, _god_ , it _hurts_ , this loss that could have been, this brush with death he doesn't even want to _think_ about. Losing Pete is unimaginable, unbearable, _unacceptable_. To be given the other half of your soul, to experience how it feels to simply _look_ at a person and know what they think, how they feel, what _music_ their _inner life_ is set to — only to have it ripped away on a whim of fate? It's cruelty beyond belief.

Patrick _sobs_ until his stomach cramps up from the contractions, until he's numb; spent with no relief.

There'll be no relief until Pete is out of the hospital.

His knees creak when he gets up to take a shower, the inner and outer pains blending together until Patrick is just a giant, trembling nerve. The sensation of warm water on his skin is strange, downright _painful_ , but he can't afford the time it would take to deal with... _whatever_ this is.

More important things await.

So, once clean and dry, Patrick gets dressed and heads straight back to the hospital.

*

Joe and Andy flip out when they see him, but there's nothing they can do about it.

He manages to talk them into leaving and getting showers themselves but they, too, are back within an hour.

They all watch the dawn rise, cups of shitty coffee in their hands, eyes dry and itching from the lack of sleep.

They catch cat-naps twisted like pretzels in the torture-chairs or on each others' shoulders, play stupid word games to pass the time.

They wait.

*

It's not like it's the first time, Patrick reasons with himself, once Pete wakes up lucid and makes him leave the hospital to get some sleep. Pete's pulled a lot of stunts over the years, some of them ending up with him hurt, some not.

There's the foot-breaking incident, the jumping off of various elevated surfaces, the crowd-surfing, the breaking of walls and other materials.

There's also the incident they don't talk about, not in so many words. They did discuss it, once, and agreed on a strict procedure of contacting each other if even a _hint_ of that behavior (or any of the feelings) reared its ugly head again.

Honestly, Patrick would rather discuss _everything under the sun_ to _exhaustion_ than have another phone call like he did a decade ago.

So, it's not so unusual for Pete to hurt himself. It's much less frequent _now_ , sure, but not unheard of.

But for some reason, Pete's mortality hit Patrick _hard_ this time, the way it never did before.

Patrick dreads, and frets, and can't stop thinking about all the ways Pete could end up in the hospital again; pale cheeks and bloodless lips, a heart monitor beeping slowly, dull white walls and stiff sheets everywhere.

Pete's mom and dad crying in the corner.

It plagues him, that idea, those images; makes him wake up from his already uneasy sleep with his heart jumping into his throat, some unnamed, invisible _dread_ covering his entire body like a blanket.

He shoves it all away, tries not to think about it.

They're lucky it was just a festival they've been at, since it turns out that Pete can't use his arm for a couple of months at least. Playing bass is out of the question.

The _unlucky_ part is that they have a tour coming up soon.

Even with the most optimistic prognosis, it's half-way through Pete's recovery time.

It makes everything so much more complicated.

*

Pete's mother and father make him stay with them once he's out of the hospital, and while Patrick visits often, he has a million things to take care of. More often than not, it's things _Pete_ used to handle.

"You work too much," Patrick says at the end of day two of Pete being out of the hospital and Patrick having all the responsibilities he used to have.

"What? No, I don't, I'm at home, being a _model patient_ , Patrick."

His bitter tone implies he hates every second of it.

"I meant in general, asshole. You definitely work too much because there aren't enough hours in the day to deal with everything you do and _sleep_."

Pete is silent for a few moments, then says, "I don't do it all my myself. You and Andy and Joe are there to help, and Ryan, and a whole army of other people. I delegate."

It's partially true because Patrick feels the absence of Pete keenly, too; his part in writing the songs and handling various band-related issues. He _misses_ his partner in crime.

Pete's workload is still _enormous_ , though. Patrick can't imagine how Pete deals with DCD2, Ronin, all the interviews and shows and appearances, _and_ the million other small projects he has going on, all at the same time.

"Take your painkillers, Pete. You sound tired."

Pete scoffs into the receiver but Patrick can hear a bottle rattle, then the faint sound of a liquid sloshing.

"Good. Now go to sleep."

"You're not my mother," Pete mutters. "I know, she was here a minute ago, fussing over me just like you, only she can't sing."

"Hey," Patrick says, trying to interrupt what's clearly about to be a laundry list of complaints.

It's not that he doesn't want to listen to Pete, he just _knows_ Pete will talk himself into a sulk if he's left to sort out his own brain, and no one needs that.

"What."

"Go the fuck to sleep. See you tomorrow."

Patrick will be there bright and early with bells on.

It's nothing personal, but he doesn't quite trust anyone to tell him how Pete's doing, Pete himself included.

Pete _particularly_ , since he's a lying liar who lies when it comes to his own mental, physical and emotional health.

"Okay. But if you don't spring me from here at least for an hour, I'll— I'll— like, I don't know what I'll do but I'll think of _something_. Something mean and embarrassing. You hear me?"

"I heard you, mean and embarrassing, springing you out of jail, got it. Now say goodnight, and if you fall asleep soon, I'll be there before you know it."

"'You better."

"I _will_. Goodnight."

"'Night," Pete says.

Patrick hangs up and sighs.

He's awake enough to go over some paperwork before bed so he drags it out of the pile on his coffee table. After all, that's all he does lately — he works, and then works some more, and sleeps (badly), and eats (sometimes), and copes (barely). He does all of it while frantically _not_ thinking about what almost happened. What _could_ have happened.

Life goes on.

Life fucking goes on.

*

Patrick finds one of Pete's hoodies when he's digging through his closet a few days later. It's the over-sized grey one Pete wore all the time at one point, with a front pocket and _RONIN_ spelled in white caps over the chest. It must've gotten mixed in with Patrick's sweaters, and no wonder — Pete has a habit of leaving his things everywhere if he feels comfortable with the space and people that live there. It's partly a 'marking his territory' and partly 'what's mine is yours' thing.

He's nothing if not fiercely, possessively loyal.

Without thinking, Patrick lifts the hoodie to his face and inhales deeply.

It still smells like Pete: the faint traces of his fabric softener, his favorite perfume, all underlined with the scent of Pete's skin Patrick still remembers from the long days stuck in the same van and too few showers.

It soothes an ache deep inside Patrick, the smell of the hoodie and the memories it brings with it.

Patrick pulls it on and goes to meet with the lawyers.

He arrives downtown to a somber atmosphere in the conference room. It seems like the dichotomy between the situation and the fact that he's a 'rock star' has made all of them awkward as shit.

Everyone but the boss, that is — a stunningly gorgeous woman in a yellow dress worth probably more than Patrick's entire wardrobe that is contrasting incredibly with her dark skin.

"Welcome, Mr. Stump," she says once he's settled in his chair.

"Patrick, please. No one calls me Mr. Stump."

"Patrick, then. I'm Jessica Pearson. Your people filled us in, but since this is out of their area of expertise, they've recommended that you hire us for the actual lawsuit. I asked you to come to this meeting to confirm a few details."

"Sure," Patrick says, trying not to fidget.

They run through the basics, all the relevant personal and professional info, then the official report on what happened. As suspected, it was a simple case of negligence: pressed on time and low on funds, the contractors cut one too many corners, and Pete ended up paying the price.

Patrick is not surprised, but he still feels physically ill.

He drifts through the rest of the report, attentive enough to hear the information but not really taking it in. It's too difficult, hearing all this stuff in a detached, clinical voice. They're all strangers, they don't know how it felt to see that stage swallow Pete. How many nightmares Patrick woke up from, shaking, clutching his mobile in a fist so he doesn't call Pete.

Patrick draws the sleeves of Pete's hoodie over his hands absently, making what Pete refers to as his 'sweater paws'. He twitches as he remembers the laughter accompanying that phrase, a pang of panic stabbing through his chest.

' _Hey, what are you up to?_ ' he texts Pete, carefully setting his phone on silent so it doesn't disturb the meeting.

It's incredibly rude, he knows that, but it's either text Pete or literally _vibrate_ out of his skin at the moment, and he's rather not show all of these people how close to the edge he is.

' _watching terminator salvation and wishing someone would bring me gummi bears_ '

' _when r u coming back_ '

Patrick smiles and replies: ' _Soon. Coming back with candy, too. You better be grateful._ '

' _Im always grateful 4 u, patrick_ '

' _And 4 ur sugar buns_ '

' _Oh get some buns too_ '

Patrick doesn't roll his eyes because he's in a _serious meeting_.

"Anything else you'd like to add, Patrick?" Ms. Pearson asks, and Patrick snaps back to attention.

Yes.

 _Yes_ , he would like to add something, very _fucking_ much so, in fact.

Patrick sits up, pushes up his glasses and says, "I just want to make one thing clear. I— _We_ want these people punished. We aren't willing to negotiate or compromise, because there's not enough money _in the world_ for us to settle this quietly and out of the court. Not this time, and not for these people. We want a conviction, and we want the damages to be paid in full.

"And we never want any of them to come within ten feet of a stage, _ever_ again."

An intern or a baby lawyer or some sort of aide scribbles frantically in a notebook while Ms. Pearson simply nods. Patrick feels like she'd be able to recite this entire meeting verbatim and under oath in court, if needed.

It's more than a little intimidating.

"When it comes to the money..." Patrick hesitates because he hadn't discussed this with any of the others, but he's fairly sure they're all on the same page.

Ms. Pearson lifts one eloquent, flawlessly shaped eyebrow at him.

Screw it, too late to back out now. He'll fix it later if the guys object.

"All the money is to be divided between Pete's charities. Every last cent. We don't need it. I don't want to see it _any of it_."

Ms. Pearson nods and stands up, holding her hand out for a handshake. "Very well. I think we have all we need. We'll stay in touch."

They shake hands, and Patrick's at the door when he turns back around.

"Ms. Pearson. Pete is... He's very important to us, and..." he trails off, unsure where he's going with this, how to ask for reassurance they'll fight this battle with _everything_ they have.

If Patrick can't do it himself, _they_ have to, for Pete.

Ms. Pearson seems to understand anyway.

"Don't worry, Patrick. They'll regret ever hearing your name. _Or mine_ ," she says.

The smile on her face is enough to send a strangely reassuring shiver down Patrick's spine.

 _Oh._ Well, then.

They're in good hands.

*

"We have to postpone the tour," Andy says when they all finally meet, and Patrick agrees.

Pete doesn't even hesitate. "Out of the question."

"Pete, dude, come on," Joe says.

" _No_."

"Pete, _you can't play_. The tour is starting in two weeks. There's no way you'll heal by then," Andy says gently.

"I know that," Pete scoffs. "That doesn't mean we have to cancel the tour. I can still talk and appear on stage. Chris can play the bass."

It's.. not such a bad idea, actually.

"Pete, there's no way—" Joe starts, but Pete cuts him off.

"We are _not_. Cancelling. Any shows."

Steely-eyed, hard-voiced determination is something they rarely hear from Pete, but they all know it. It's his 'I've made a decision, and it's an _important_ one, it Means Something to me, so pay attention' voice.

Patrick caves.

"Okay. Chris plays the bass, we don't cancel any shows, but you have to _take care of yourself_ and take it easy. Or I swear to god, I'll personally and _gladly_ drag your ass back to Chicago to your mother's doorstep and leave you there."

Pete grins at him, one of his heart-stoppingly charming ones, and says, "Ohh, talk dirty to me, Patrick. What is it about my ass—"

Joe and Andy pelt him with chips before he can get himself killed, so Patrick doesn't even have to do anything to get his revenge.

He will still ignore Pete's messages the next day. Pete _hates_ that.

Serves him right.

*

Patrick takes 'What a catch' off the set list.

He doesn't say anything to anyone, just drops it out of every set list suggestion they discuss, and keeps dropping it whenever someone puts it back on.

The mere thought of singing it makes him sick to his stomach.

Pete gives him a long look when they meet in person after the set list is finalized, _knowing_ as only Pete's looks can be, and then hugs him without a word.

Patrick clings back gratefully, face buried in Pete's neck, and _breathes_.

It helps.

*

First week of the tour and Pete's doing fine.

He's a little slow, and curses out his cast five times a day when it prevents him from doing something, but he's adapted. He mostly wears huge sweatshirts, ones that fit easily over his cast, and catnaps a few times a day to keep his energy up. Everyone is careful not to let him do it for too long so he doesn't accidentally ruin his hard-earned normal rhythm, but it seems to be going well.

At least, Patrick can hear him breathe deeply and evenly at night, while Patrick wanders around the bus, or the hotel room, or while he lays awake and thinks of all the ways this could have turned out so, _so_ much worse.

So, anyway, Pete's just fine.

 _Patrick_ , on the other hand, seems to be having a nervous breakdown.

He can't help it; it's like the proverbial switch has been flipped, one that bathes a room into black light and brings out _everything_ that was under the surface into blinding, glowing focus.

It's _too much_.

There are _so many_ fears, so many issues (that he's not dealing with), so many _feelings_ — the mess in Patrick's head is fucking _monumentous_.

At the same time, one thing is _very_ clear, the star — and _yes_ , Patrick's aware of the irony, thank you very much, brain — in the center of it all:

Pete.

Pete has to get _healthy_ again. He has to _stay_ healthy.

Pete is to be _protected_.

Patrick has no idea how he's supposed to do it, but apparently, his sanity depends on it.

It's a fucking _terrifying_ thought.

First because Pete's a grown man, the whole idea of protecting him from some indeterminable danger is _preposterous_. Second because it's _Pete_ , who hasn't met a stupid dare or a bad idea he didn't want to jump on _immediately_ , which means it's a futile endeavor from the start. And third, because it's _not a good idea to connect his sanity to fucking Pete fucking Wentz_ , _ever_ , under _any circumstances_. _First rule_ of being in a band with Pete!

_And yet!_

Patrick suddenly wonders if the propensity for drama is contagious, if the exposure to Pete during all these years has made him Dramatic with a capital D.

A tiny, _tiny_ part of Patrick's brain goes ' _Heh, capital D_ ', and he startles.

 _Oh god_ , it _is_ contagious, and it's _spreading_.

Patrick stops breathing for a second, horrified, then remembers his teenage rage blackouts and tantrums over songs and records in his twenties, and feels like a dick.

Okay, so he's plenty Dramatic on his own. Point taken. And considering this spiral of unhinged thoughts he just came out of, the jury is still out on the sanity part.

The nervous breakdown is all but confirmed, though.

 _Wonderful_.

*

"You can't do it on your own, Pete, you have _a cast on_ , what the hell?"

Patrick wants to strangle Pete, and it's not a new feeling. It is, in fact, a feeling that basically _predates their friendship_.

"Pfft, cast schmast. I can do it. Besides, I'm not gonna bother anyone about this. It's a simple thing to do, and I have all the supplies here. People have better things to do than, like, run after me all the time," Pete says absently as he first peels off the bandage on his forehead, then the one under his collarbone.

"It's _literally_ their _job_ to do this! _You_ , _Pete Wentz_ , on the other hand, have _no_ idea what you're doing," Patrick insists, even though he knows it's a losing battle.

Pete lifts an eyebrow at him. "Really? We did much worse shit, back in the day."

Patrick rolls his eyes. "We also used to go weeks without showering. We once put _air freshener_ on instead of deodorant — a brilliant idea we got _independently_ of one another within a few minutes, by the way — and almost got chemical burns on our armpits. We weren't exactly the brightest crayons in the box, Pete."

Pete snorts and fumbles with the last bandage, the one across the nape of his neck.

"No, _stop that_ — oh, for the love of— here, let me," Patrick says and steps behind Pete.

He slaps Pete's hands away gently, then takes off the bandage, careful not to pull at the skin too much.

The cut beneath looks fairly healthy and, as far as Patrick can see, is healing well.

He takes the disinfectant and the gauze away from Pete and gets started.

It turns out to be as simple as Pete said; all the cuts are healing well, and there's little fuss in reapplying the gauze and the tape.

Patrick tries not to get distracted with the expanse of dark, warm skin so near, but it's… difficult.

This is the closest he's been to a shirtless Pete in a long while. He's been wearing baggier and baggier layers lately, and Patrick almost forgot that Pete's _incredibly_ good looking even though he's long out of his twenties. Even bruised and battered as he is now.

Patrick's eyes stray, hands on automatic.

Pete's tattoos still look... good. _Very_ good, in fact. Patrick doesn't remember him having so many. They're dark, too, probably freshened up or something; he doesn't know the lingo. It was always fascinating to Patrick, how much of Pete is displayed on his own skin for everyone to see, if you just know how to decipher the message. How vulnerable Pete lets himself _be_ , fearlessly.

Patrick suddenly wants to _touch_.

It stops him in his tracks because he's never been a tactile person. Sometimes, he'd more _endured_ than welcomed Pete's hugs, always a tiny bit relieved when the contact was over and he had his own personal space back.

Now, he wonders what it would feel like to slide his palms down Pete's sides, slowly, _firmly_ , until he hits his waistband, then follows it all the way around, fingertips slipping just a touch under the fabric, meeting in the warm dip of Pete's lower back.

He wonders if Pete would make a sound, if he would shiver, or maybe move into the touch.

If he'd let Patrick slide his hands down, down, _down_ —

Pete shifts impatiently and shocks Patrick out of his head, hands shaking imperceptibly as he fights a treacherous flush.

 _What_ in the _ever-loving hell_ was _that_?

Was the mental breakdown _not enough_?

Patrick curses out his entire lineage and takes a steadying breath, refocusing on his task.

There's no time for a sexuality crisis; Pete's about to run off into the filthy world with his wounds out in the open and unprotected. Patrick's skin crawls at the thought of all the _germs_ , goddamn _everywhere_.

The last cut is on Pete's forehead and has graduated to just a band-aid, so Patrick applies it, and then presses a feather-light kiss on it without thinking.

Oh _god_ , _what_ is he _doing_?

Pete's breath hitches in surprise, barely a hint of a sound, and then he grins at Patrick, the very definition of shit-eating.

"There. I'm not gonna be your nursemaid again," Patrick blusters, fussing with the supplies to cover the fucking blush he hasn't been able to suppress after all, and that he's feeling in the tips of his ears.

"No? C'moooon, Pattycakes. Bet you'd look _good_ in a nurse outfit. I'd know, I've seen your knees when we filmed 'Centuries'."

The heat in Patrick's ears spills over to his cheeks, but before Pete can crow about it, Patrick reaches out and shoves Pete's face away gently.

"Go put a shirt on, it's not 2007."

Pete bats his hand away but he goes, blowing him a raspberry on his way out.

Patrick groans and lets himself have thirty seconds of _freaking the fuck out_ , then starts packing up the first aid kit.

His life is a joke, and someone, _somewhere_ , is laughing their ass off at him.

*

Day eight of the tour, and Pete had gotten his hands on some multi-colored markers and decided to 'decorate' his cast.

By the time Patrick tracks him down a few hours before the show half the crew has already signed it, as well as a few fans Pete's bumped into. Between the bits of lyrics and the colorful fill-ins, there's hardly half an inch of it left in its original white.

Honestly, Patrick's surprised it took him this long.

He wants to tease Pete about the kindergarten coloring project gone wrong stuck to his arm, but it kind of looks cool.

And Pete saved him a spot on his inner forearm, pristine and surrounded by tiny purple hearts.

The dork.

Patrick adds a heart of his own when he signs.

He's just not sure if it's a figurative thing as well as a literal one.

(All signs point to 'yes'.)

*

As expected, and in fact announced, Pete has insisted and indeed _went_ on stage with a broken arm, _every single show_ , and kept jumping around, and talking, and _staying up there_ from the first moment to the very end.

Patrick spends show after show half-distracted, nearly avoiding a coronary every time Pete gets too close to the crowd.

It's not that someone would hurt him deliberately, their fans are awesome, but it's a _crowd_. You can't control ten thousand people; something will go wrong.

For as many shows they've had, Patrick can't always predict Pete. There are things he always does, like singing ' _I'm half-doomed and you're semi-sweet_ ' to himself from next to Patrick during 'Disloyal Order', or coming over for the ' _Pete and I_ ' part of 'Saturday', but then he wanders away again. Sure, he doesn't do his screaming part of 'Saturday' from quite so close to the crowd, but that takes off barely a quarter of Patrick's stress for less than four minutes out of ninety.

He's started to turn compulsively to check where Pete is, calming down only when he sees him messing with Andy's drums, or bugging Joe while he's shredding.

He even stalks after Pete once, getting halfway across the stage before remembering _he has to sing_ and returning for his microphone, glaring at Joe as he passes by. The man is shaking with not-so-silent-but-barely-audible-over-the-crowd-anyway laughter.

Patrick borrows a page from Pete's book and throws picks at Joe during a particularly tricky solo in retaliation.

They're halfway into 'Sugar' on day ten of the tour when Patrick snaps, no longer able to control his anxiety.

He grabs the back of Pete's sweatshirt as he's wandering by and pulls him back, all the way into Patrick's body, so he's unable to wander too far away and get _hurt_ again.

Pete seems a bit confused but complies readily enough, spends the rest of the song hanging off Patrick like he hasn't done in _years_.

It's the calmest three minutes of Patrick's _life_.

He closes his eyes and _sings_ , drawing strength from the contact, hitting the notes like proverbial baseballs out of the park. He feels downright _powerful_.

Patrick decides he's more than happy to put up with the cast scratching and poking him all over if it means Pete stays by his side, preferably maintaining bodily contact so Patrick doesn't have to twist and turn to see him.

It would truly be a small price to pay.

*

The fans have noticed.

 _Of course_ they have; Patrick can't believe he didn't anticipate that.

The very next show, a huge _'Pete is [arrow] way'_ sign appears, the spinning arrow a cut-out of Pete in one of his fashion-disaster outfits with a pointy hat on his head. The sign even has a helpful little 'behind you' section at the very top.

It's amazing and Patrick _loves it_.

"Thanks, you guys. Now I won't have to put a baby monitor on him," Patrick calls out to them after the first song, and gets a laugh.

"Or maybe the ankle one would be more appropriate," Patrick muses out loud.

"Hey, I'm not the only one on this stage who was _arrested_ , man," Pete drawls into the microphone with a smirk.

The crowd ' _ooohh_ 's.

"I did my time, I paid off my debt to society, what more do you want?!" Patrick squeaks in faux-outrage.

"You should have been arrested for being too cute. It's _very_ distracting."

Patrick bats his eyelashes at Pete dramatically and gets one of his delighted, helpless laughs in return.

It's like being plugged into a socket; Patrick's energy surges up in response, heart kicking away merrily.

He is _such_ a fucking cliche.

"But back to the sign thing — _you_ are a bunch of snitches, man. Where's the loyalty? Why you tattling on me?"

"So I don't get a heart attack trying to keep an eye on you?" Patrick says, and it might be too honest an answer, but Patrick can't regret it when Pete looks back at him in surprise.

The kids roar in approval.

"Pete?"

"Yes, Patrick?"

"Tag, you're it," he says, and turns to Andy to count them in.

He sees Pete pout and play up being inconvenienced from the corner of his eye while he sings, but it's obvious he's getting a kick out of the whole thing since he spends at least three songs running left and right across the stage just to see if they keep up with him.

They _do_ , almost second for second; it's a _very_ dedicated bunch of fans.

The running was a tactical error on Pete's part, though, and he fairly collapses next to Patrick for the acoustic part of the night. He's up and running again a few songs later, but it's not as far away from Patrick as he can be, and nowhere near as energetic as he usually is.

And at the encore, during 'Saturday', Pete doesn't move from Patrick's side the entire time.

Patrick feels a pang of guilt because Pete is hurting, it's _obvious_ to Patrick no matter how hard Pete tries to hide it, but he can't help the giddiness spreading through his veins at Pete's proximity, the lack of space between them.

The lack of space in all senses of the word.

Patrick's personal space bubble has mutated into something new, it seems. Something that accepts Pete unconditionally, even craves his presence.

He throws an arm around Pete's shoulders as they file off the stage, drawing him ever so closer.

In the dark, Pete's teeth gleam a happy, bright white.

*

"Why do you go on stage every night?" Patrick asks after the show, both of them showered and ready for bed but too wired to sleep.

The TV is playing 'Aeroplanes' with the volume down; captions on but unnecessary since they can both quote most of the movie verbatim.

"Or… Why do you stay for the entire show? Why not take a break? Or sit out some songs, or do literally _anything else_ instead of being 'on' up there all the time?"

Because Pete looks exhausted, is the thing, more than he usually would be. It's a look reserved for the end of long tours and endless travels, not halfway through a small domestic tour.

Patrick _worries_.

"After the last time…" Pete starts, and Patrick's heart kicks into high gear.

There's no need to clarify 'last time'.

Last time was a miserable, frantic string of shows that left Patrick scrambling to fill in the shoes he was never supposed to, never _wanted_ to fill.

Last time, Patrick came back from Europe and said—

"You said you never wanted to do it alone again. Without… without me."

The last part is said tentatively, as if Pete is unsure if he remembers it right, or if it's still true, and Patrick can't take it, this stupid insecurity when _there should be none_.

He turns toward Pete and hugs him, _so tight_ , and doesn't let go.

Pete clings back, letting Patrick take a good part of his weight.

He must be more tired than he's willing to show.

"I meant it," Patrick whispers, petting Pete's back in long, soothing strokes from the shoulders to the bottom of his spine. "I wouldn't do any of this without you. I know we joke otherwise, and I know I might seem… _unconcerned_ sometimes, but I'm not."

Pete hums, grows a tiny bit heavier in his arms.

"You still don't have to be there all the time, though. I'll manage," Patrick insists.

He'd push through however many shows without Pete if necessary. His health is more important than Patrick's hang-ups.

And he'd like to think he got better at the stage thing throughout the years.

"I know. Want to," Pete says, words slurring, breathing deep and even.

"Okay," Patrick says quietly, and stays right where he is while Pete sinks into sleep, holding on all the while.

They spend the night on the couch.

*

The next day is a bad one.

Patrick finds Pete curled up in pain after lunch, refusing to take the painkillers no matter how much Patrick pleads.

"Take the painkillers, Pete," Patrick says for the fifth time, but Pete just shakes his head like he did every time so far.

"Pete…"

"I can't. You _know_ why I can't."

Patrick was never sure of the precise details of Pete's substance abuse, but he knows prescription pills were a part of it.

Since he got clean, Pete barely takes the occasional Aspirin for his headaches. Painkillers for a broken arm are much, much stronger.

And much more tempting.

"Are you _sure_?"

" _Yes_ ," Pete stresses.

"Okay, then. Let's go find Joe."

Pete looks up. "What? Why?"

Patrick gives him a look. "You know why. If you don't want prescription drugs, you have to go green. It's non-negotiable. I'm not gonna watch you suffer for the next however many hours."

Pete looks mulish, and Patrick can read the impending refusal in his eyes so he pulls out the big guns.

"If you're in pain, you won't be able to do the show tonight."

"Fuck," Pete says, then groans as another wave of pain hits him.

Patrick folds his arms not to reach for him, but _fuck_ , it's hard to watch Pete in pain.

"It's not a threat, it's just a fact. You know I'm right," Patrick says, hopefully in a calm tone of voice.

He can't tell, he's mind is too busy processing Pete and planning what to do if he keeps being so damn _stubborn_.

"Okay," Pete relents. "But only a little. And you can't come with me — your _voice_ , Patrick."

"I'll wait right here," Patrick promises, prepared to do whatever it takes to make Pete stop looking like tenderized steak.

For the next half hour, Patrick rattles around the bus, jittery with nerves and making more of a mess than when he started 'cleaning up'.

Pete comes back and makes a beeline to him, attaching himself to Patrick in a full body hug.

Patrick can't find it in himself to mind. The clouds just dissolved and the sun is shining on Patrick again.

"This was a good idea," Pete says, head on Patrick's shoulder. "I don't hurt anymore."

"Good," Patrick says, holding on without a shred of shame.

Fuck shame, he was _really_ worried.

"Thank you," Pete says solemnly, then proceeds to slobber uncoordinated kisses all over Patrick's face.

Patrick puts a stop to it when Pete licks his eyebrow.

"Okay, enough, _enough_. Come on, time for a nap."

"Nooo," Pete whines like a 4-year-old.

"Yes," Patrick says firmly.

"Don't wannaaaa."

Since Pete is figuratively and literally digging his heels in, Patrick has no choice but to resort to bribery.

"What do you want in exchange for it? Ice cream? Some obscure '90s collectible? A new hoodie?"

Pete looks into Patrick's eyes, crossed-eyed since their noses are touching, and declares: "Five songs. And you take a nap with me."

Patrick arranges his face into as suspicious a configuration as possible.

It's never a good idea to give in to Pete too soon, he'll push the limits to absurdity.

"One song and I stay with you until you fall asleep."

"Noooo," Pete whines, barely understandable since his face is currently buried in Patrick's neck. He's doing a very convincing impersonation of a cat, headbutts and body undulating against Patrick's.

It's driving Patrick to distraction.

"Three songs," Patrick chokes out.

"Two, but you _have_ to _stay_ ," Pete says, rubbing his beard against Patrick's collarbone and _holy god_ , but that feels good.

"Deal," Patrick says hurriedly. His knees are threatening to give out, so he moves them to the bed in the back of the bus in less than a minute.

Pete falls asleep half-way into song number four — as if Patrick wasn't going to do an entire concert for Pete's benefit, he's such a pushover — curled up on his side next to him, arm draped over Patrick's chest.

Patrick wonders what the fuck he thinks he's doing for a while, then tries to convince himself to get up and leave.

It doesn't work.

Pete feels _right_ next to him, right _in his arms_ like no one else does. It kind of blows Patrick's mind, that he's finding all these new ways they fit together after knowing Pete more than _fifteen years_.

He also feels a bit stupid for not realizing any of this before.

...if there even is a 'this' to be realizing. If Pete's interested in that way, and not being his usual touch-happy, friendly self.

If Patrick ever works up the courage to face this head-on, and not just think about it in stolen moments while watching Pete like a creepy stalker.

Patrick sighs, Pete's arm with the cast on raising with the motion of his chest, Pete still sound asleep. His fingers look so vulnerable, peeking out of the cast like that, and Patrick can't help tracing them carefully. So many lyrics written, so many hours spent playing bass, and spinning records, and throwing picks at Patrick.

So many delicate bones in a hand; it's a miracle none of them were broken when Pete fell. Patrick's aware that fucking up his hands is one of Pete's nightmares and he's grateful they all avoided _that_ mindfuck, because it would have been a big one.

"Sleep, Patrick," Pete mumbles.

He shifts, squirms a bit closer, and falls back asleep with his fingers tucked inside Patrick's shirt, against his neck.

Patrick, exhausted and confused, with no decision in sight one way or another, closes his eyes and lets sleep take him.

*

Pete sings along to their songs (carefully away from the mike, as always, as if he thinks his voice is unpalatable and mustn't be heard near Patrick's — and that's ridiculous; doesn't Pete see how _ridiculous_ that is?), and he talks, and he jumps, and when they return backstage after the encore he's gasping in pain.

Patrick _maybe_ loses his mind a little.

He comes back to himself while half-dragging, half-supporting Pete to their hotel room, lecturing him all the way there.

"Of all the stupid, boneheaded, reckless—"

He settles Pete on the bed, covers him with a blanket, then fetches the painkillers and water.

The fact that Pete takes them without complaint makes his anxiety and dread go up one more notch.

"You're not allowed to get hurt again. Do you understand me? Because I swear to god, Pete, I'm going to _murder you myself_. And it's going to be creative, and slow, and _painful_."

No, it's not, Patrick is full of shit, but Pete nods tiredly, and wow, not even a snappy comeback?

He's _really_ bad off.

_Fuck._

"Don't you dare move an inch until I'm back," Patrick says, disappearing into the bathroom before Pete can reply.

He takes out his contacts, takes the quickest shower known to man, then throws on a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt in record time.

Pete has managed to change into _his_ plaid pajama pants and a 'Stump club' t-shirt while Patrick was gone, dozing against the mountain of pillows piled on one of the beds.

There's not a single pillow on the other bed.

What the fuck, the man is like a squirrel collecting nuts for the winter, but with _pillows_.

"Hey, Patrick, c'mere," Pete says as Patrick opens his mouth to complain.

His speech is slow and a tiny bit slurred, pills apparently already taking effect.

"I need a pillow," he says.

"A pillow," Patrick asks.

"Yep," Pete replies.

" _Another_ one?"

"Yeah. You," Pete says, smiling with eyes closed.

What?

Patrick blinks.

"...are you kidding?"

Pete opens his eyes. "No."

He's really not kidding.

It's not like it's a huge thing; they've fallen asleep together before, on the couch just recently and in the bed that time Pete was really bad, as well as in a variety of appropriate and inappropriate places during their various tours.

But for some reason, this is… a step that Patrick stumbles on. Over. Trips on?

It's not that he doesn't want to, he _does_ , the bed looks tempting and the Pete in it makes it doubly so, it's just…

It feels like a _statement_ , of a sort. Like few things in Patrick's life have been, or felt like.

A 'here I go, I am Taking This Step into the unknown, I am doing it _right now_ ' kind of thing.

And he doesn't even know what This Step _is_ yet.

It's the _premeditation_ of it, Patrick muses. They've never decided to lay in the same bed with the intention of sleeping. Not since 'bed' meant adjacent sleeping bags on some stranger's living room floor back when they were kids.

When Patrick fails to move or speak, Pete makes a pitiful sound and a grabby hand (and awkward cast-wave) in his direction.

And Patrick folds like a wet, poorly constructed house of cards.

"Fine, you leech. How— how do you want me?" Patrick asks.

Oh, wow, top-notch choice of words there, _Patrick_ , not at all suggestive.

"On your back."

Patrick does as Pete asked, slides under the covers and lies on his back, and Pete crawls half on top of him, an arm and a leg draped over Patrick, head tucked under Patrick's chin.

That is _a lot of_ Pete, _very_ close to most of Patrick.

"Comfy?" Patrick checks, because what the hell, might as well let this happen.

Pete hums out a sleepy confirmation.

"Good," Patrick whispers, mostly to himself, and tries to calm himself by dragging his fingertips over Pete's undercut gently.

Pete hasn't been bleaching his hair lately, though Patrick's helped him trim the sides a few times, so his natural colour is showing. The light/dark combination of it looks quite pretty to Patrick.

The tiny hairs prickle delightfully, too. It's such a contrast to the longer hair on top of Pete's head that Patrick alternates for a while, mesmerized.

Prickly. Smooth.

Prickly.

Smooooth.

Patrick drifts off, warm and calm, hand still tangled in Pete's hair.

*

The cast comes off a little earlier than anticipated and _no one_ is happier than Pete.

Sure, there's still a few screws left inside that he'll have to have removed at some point, but for now, he's running around, ecstatic, showing everyone his 'gross, pale, thin arm — _dude_ , it _smells_ , and the skin is _flaking off_ , and my tattoos are all _fucked up_ '.

Patrick rolls his eyes and drags him back to the bus after he's made the rounds, making him soak it per the nurse's instructions. Pete fidgets and whines, complains about not being able to scratch, but stays put.

Patrick has picked up some unscented lotion on their way back from the doctor's so he applies it after the soaking, all the while lecturing Pete on not overdoing it, and working his way up to using the arm, and also being careful, and not scratching because the skin is still new and sensitive.

He looks up when he's done relaying all the information from the pamphlet and his own research online, Pete's arm cradled in his lap, and the look on Pete's face is…

It's...

"Don't worry. I'll be careful," Pete says. His eyes are a soft, liquid gold Patrick can't look away from.

Patrick swallows.

"You better," he says quietly. "I kind of like you in one piece."

"Thanks. For taking care of me. Don't think I haven't noticed," Pete says into the space between them.

Patrick ducks his head, suddenly feeling _raw_.

"It scared the shit out of me. The accident. I think I kind of…lost it for a while there."

Pete rests his forehead against the top of Patrick's head. "I know. I'm _sorry_."

"It wasn't your fault," Patrick says firmly. "Don't do that, don't take on things that aren't yours to carry."

"Okay," Pete says. "I'll do that if you put down some of the shit _you_ carry. I'm _fine_. The band is fine, the tour is going well. You can relax for a little while. _I'm_ here, I've _got you_."

And that turns out to be the final nail in the coffin of Patrick's foolish affections.

His heart gives in.

Patrick's denial goes next, and then the stubborn resistance to changing the status quo.

Reach for the stars, and in the worst case you get the moon, right?

He'll reach for the biggest and brightest one in the sky, and _hope_ he doesn't burn in the light of it.

"Okay," Patrick says, and _means it_.

*

It's kind of funny, how age gives you a different perspective on some things. How trauma makes you forget things, until they suddenly come back to you, crystal clear as if they were always there, carrying a shitload of stress and anxiety with them.

Patrick lies in a hotel bed, Pete sleeping in the bed two feet away from him, and thinks about that night in the hospital.

He thinks about what Pete said, about Patrick leaving or sending Pete away.

He thinks about the 'mom and dad' that tumbled off Pete's lips.

He knew, sort of, about the camp Pete's parents sent him to when he was 14. About the fights and bullying there, about Pete calling home, crying, _begging_ to come back, for _days_.

Patrick knew, because Pete was nothing if not brutally honest and open with his past, his life, his emotions.

He knew about Pete's parents bolting the basement window so Pete wouldn't sneak out, and about him managing to do it anyway, time and again. He knew Pete was an angry kid, wanted to be _heard_ when he wasn't even sure what he wanted to say.

Patrick knew all of that, but he was a kid himself, younger than Pete, and he hadn't really _understood_ a lot of it.

Or, he _did_ , but it became a part of the Pete Wentz Myth, his capital-S _Story_ , and not something his best friend and other half _lived_ through.

He thinks about it now, in the dark, unwilling to move and nothing there to distract him from the thoughts in his head, and he _aches_.

He aches for the kid Pete was, scared and alone at the camp. For the kid diagnosed with bipolar disorder, medicated, treated and looked at like he was a freak. The kid recovering from an overdose and being fed platitudes from the adults around him, hearing they 'know how he feels'. The kid screaming to be seen and heard, and never getting the right kind of attention, never having relief.

And sure, Pete's parents were a middle class couple who didn't know how to deal with a bipolar rock star in the making. They didn't have control over the events that shaped Pete anymore than Pete did, in general. And they didn't have it easy either.

But they _fucked up their kid_ in ways that has Patrick scrambling to band-aid the consequences two decades later.

 _Two decades_ , and that's with the therapy Pete goes to fairly regularly.

He just, he _doesn't understand_. Who would look at Pete and not be fascinated? Not want to cherish him, protect him, _talk_ to him for hours, until all the poison bled out of his veins and onto the paper?

Does Pete even know Patrick would do that for him? Does he know Patrick will never leave him to face his demons alone again? Because he _will_ , he'll stand by Pete's side and hold Pete's hand and follow him into whatever hell he goes through without a shred of hesitation.

Suddenly, Patrick _has to_ tell him that.

He climbs out of his own bed and sits on the edge of Pete's, street lights strong enough he sees Pete's silhouette even though the curtains are drawn. He avoids waking Pete up if he can help it, goes to great lengths to prevent it, but this is important.

"Pete… Hey, sweetheart, wake up," he says.

The endearment slips out, unconscious but very much intended, and Patrick falters for a moment before deciding he has bigger issues right now.

" _Pete_."

Pete groans, and Patrick turns on the bedside lamp on the lowest setting, light gentle and yellow, just enough to see.

Pete looks fuzzy to Patrick without the glasses on, but he can still see he's grumpy and sleepy-eyed. "What."

"Pete, you know— you know I'm not planning on leaving, right? Ever again. I mean, I haven't left last time, either, I was just sort of on a— an extended visit abroad, or some other appropriate equivalent in this metaphor, but. I won't do it again. You know that, right?"

"Umm… yeah?" Pete says. He sits up and wipes away the sleep from his eyes with a palm.

Patrick is almost reassured, except for the feeling that something is _off_ ; the hint of wariness in Pete's posture.

"Well, I'm not. Or I won't. I tried the whole 'away from you' thing, and it didn't really work for me."

Patrick breathes in, tries to collect his thoughts, but it's so hard.

So he just _talks_.

"I tried life without you, and music without you, and _food_ without you, and a whole bunch of other stuff, and it— it just _didn't work_. I _hated_ it. Everything was bland and _tasteless_. For fuck's sake, a cook at a restaurant came out to tell me I should consider _less_ spices on this dish I ordered all the time because the heat _literally_ made it impossible to taste the food properly. _That's_ what I was without you, okay?

"So you— you don't have to wait for the other shoe to drop. I'm here, of my own free will, because there's _no other place_ I'd rather be. And unless you— you _yourself_ , Pete Wentz — ask me to leave, I'm _not going anywhere_."

Pete is staring at Patrick as if he'd never seen him before in his life, with eyes wide open.

"Do you understand? Nod if you do," Patrick orders impatiently, and Pete snaps his mouth shut and nods, then _keeps_ nodding until a brilliant, ear-to-ear smile spreads across his face.

"What," Patrick says stupidly, distracted by the smile like a crow would be by something shiny.

" _Patrick_."

" _What?_ "

"Patrick _Martin Vaughn_ Stump the Magnificent," Pete says nonsensically.

"That's not my name," is Patrick's automatic, confused response.

Pete lifts his good arm and combs Patrick's messy hair to the side with his fingers.

"Patrick, did you really think I did any better without you? Sure, I kept busy, spinning the wheels, but it was all so, like, _reactionary_. Reactionary, is that how you say it?"

Patrick blinks. "Yeah."

"Like, I formed a new band and had a female lead singer because I couldn't stand the thought of replacing you. And we never even managed to put out an album because my heart wasn't in it. Because I already had my shot, my _best thing_ , and I _lost you_ , and I don't know if I hit rock bottom before, or after, or _because_ of it but. It hit me _hard_. I had to change something in my life, and it seemed like that something had to be _me_.

"And I can't say it was for you, not really, but I _hoped_. That, like, life or the universe or _something_ would throw us back together again, and you'd realize how much I was trying. How much better I could be, if you only gave me a second chance.

"And it happened, and _you did_ , and— It might sound weird or creepy but like… you're my person, Patrick. You're the one I want beside me, however I can get you. I would die for my family and my kid, and I love my friends like, an _insane_ amount, but you're like a missing piece of me. The other half of my soul. My _Patrick_."

Pete quirks a corner of his mouth to the side, a self-deprecating tell when he's both laughing at himself and telling the world that he's really not that cool, and Patrick _loves him so much_. Patrick wants to— wants to—

"Everyone should have a Patrick, I highly recommend it," Pete jokes, almost visibly pulling the vulnerable parts that were just on display back behind their shell, and oh no.

No, if they're doing this, they're fucking _doing this_.

Make it or break it, baby.

Patrick takes Pete's hands in his and squeezes.

"Hey, Pete."

"Yeah?"

"I'm gonna try something so... Don't… I hope…"

There's nothing Patrick can say to manage the possible nuclear-level outcome of this. Their lives, their band, the very _basis_ of who Patrick _is_ could get blown to pieces by this single, reckless action.

...why is Patrick doing this again?

"Okay," Pete says, because he'd never once seen Patrick struggle and failed to jump in and help, and _oh_ , _that's_ why.

Patrick leans in slowly, and it's so funny, he can _see_ the exact moment Pete figures out what's going on.

He sees surprise, and a sudden inhale, and right before their lips connect, _the very last thing he sees_ is the fact that Pete _doesn't move a muscle_.

And contact.

It's just lips touching for a few moments, warm and dry, overpowered by the pounding of Patrick's heart.

 _It's okay, it's fine_ , chants Patrick's brain _oh_ so unhelpfully.

He's so preoccupied with the fact that he's _kissing Pete_ — _Pete_! _His_ Pete! _thisissoweird_ — that he kind of… forgets to _do it_.

Pete leans away, breaking the kiss.

" _No_ ," he snaps, sounding pissed off, and there's no time for Patrick to be confused or heartbroken or outraged, because Pete's lips are back on his and Patrick is being _kissed_.

And it's very much a Being Kissed and not a Mutual Kissing Situation, because this _mind-addling_ thing is happening _to_ Patrick; there is no comparing this to what Patrick did. There is no illusion of control, either: Pete is leading this show and he's pulling out all the stops.

 _Pete_ is drawing the _last brain cell_ from Patrick via his mouth, like a succubus, or an incubus, or some other sort of _sexy sex demon_ that possesses— that, um— that—

Patrick's thoughts stall and sputter out, and then he's all _sensation_ : flushed, shaking, _wanting_ , like a mindless being of _pure desire_ ; wet open mouths more intoxicating than wine, warm hands grasping in desperation as if they've never touched before; the dizziness of no breath left in his body; the bolt of lust in his core as Pete pushes him on his back and gets closer _closer_ —

"Wait _wait_ ," Patrick gasps out desperately, and Pete's head pops up from where he was molesting Patrick's neck, hair all over the place.

"What, are you okay, _what_?" he pants out.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Patrick says, flushing a deep red.

"What? I… I don't get it," Pete says.

"I don't. _know_. what. I'm _doing_ ," Patrick stresses, "I've never done this before with a guy, okay, and it's a bit ridiculous to— "

"Hey, no, it's okay—"

"— learn this at _my age_ , but since we're the fucking _knuckleheads_ that decided to do this _now_ instead of _years ago_ —"

Pete scrambles up and sits on Patrick's stomach, making him _oomph_.

"Hey, Patrick, _Patrick_ , calm _down_ —" 

"Don't tell me to calm down," Patrick snaps, ironically already calmer just for the mere fact that he's bickering with Pete.

The same Pete who's sitting on Patrick right now, obviously ready for this vaguely-shaped _more_ Patrick is stressing about, shirtless and gorgeous (when did _that_ happen?), talking Patrick down without even a hint of annoyance.

 _Fuck_ , but he's amazing.

Patrick pulls Pete down into a kiss, conveying gratitude without a word.

He knows Pete will get it.

"I'm way too old for a fumbling, questioning phase," he grumbles as he meanders from Pete's mouth down to Pete's neck, kiss by kiss by kiss, and then decides to lick _just to see_ what Pete's neck tastes like.

It tastes _great_.

 _Will do again_ , decides Patrick's body.

"I should've had everything figured out by now, shouldn't I?" Patrick says.

"Um, yeah, sure," Pete says breathily.

Patrick pauses.

"I mean no, _no_! Shit, sorry, you just— My neck is, like, _really_ sensitive—"

The laughter starts deep inside Patrick's chest and breaks out in a staccato, shaking Patrick's entire body.

"Stop giggling, dammit, it's going _directly into my dick_ ," Pete whines, and Patrick laughs harder, rolling to the side and almost dumping Pete to the floor. He grabs onto him at the last second and drags him back onto the bed properly, straight into Patrick's arms.

"You're a dick," Patrick says fondly.

"I would argue that: a) you already knew that, and b) extenuating circumstances apply here," and okay, Patrick can give him that.

"Do _you_ know what we're doing?" Patrick asks, curious. This has already devolved past the sexy part and into a discussion of how hilariously unprepared Patrick is, so what the hell. Why not ask.

Pete lays his head on the mess of covers under them and squints with lips pursed, obviously thinking about the answer.

He is _so ridiculous_.

Patrick wants to tell him that, every day as they wake up together. In the same bed. And have breakfast.

"I'm like... Past beginner level? I've kissed a guy before, maybe there was some grinding going on, but not much else."

"In other words, we're screwed, and not in a good way," Patrick half-jokes and half-sighs.

Pete laughs. "Come on, Patrick, don't be like that. Some of these things have to be transferable, right? We'll get the hang of it, there's no rush."

True enough, but the perfectionist in Patrick wants to know everything _right now_ , be an expert-level Lover™ and impress Pete with his skills so he never has to look anywhere else again.

"And hey," Pete says, scooting closer to Patrick and propping his head on his elbow.

The smile he aims at Patrick is _incredibly_ charming.

It's _doing stuff_ to Patrick's head.

It's doing stuff to Patrick's _body_ , too.

"I figure, we have our hands..." he says, fingers sliding up from the nape of Patrick's neck and into his hair, slowly, as he kisses Patrick's cheek.

The contrast of his lips, so soft and gentle, with the slight pull of Pete's fingers in his hair, the scrape of Pete's fingernails on his scalp, makes Patrick shiver.

"...and we have our mouths," Pete murmurs into the skin of Patrick's neck, wet heat drawing a moan out of him, and Patrick's eyes slide shut as awareness of his body rushes back in, twice as strong.

"...and we can start with that…" he slides his body against Patrick's, _slowly_ , making Patrick's eyes cross and sparks rise in his wake, until he's pressing Patrick back into the bed, face hovering over Patrick's, eyes _burning_.

"...and figure out all the rest..."

Pete _doesn't_ kiss him, _damn him_ , just out of reach no matter how much Patrick strains, that incredible, incomparable _asshole_ —

"... _later_ ," Pete breathes out, and Patrick is _done_ , he's lost the tenuous grasp on his control and his sanity.

He yanks at Pete's waist and upper back until he drops on top of Patrick, catching his mouth into a kiss made of as much desire as pure frustration.

It's Pete's turn to moan, Patrick sliding both hands down his back and to his ass, pressing their lower bodies together until he can _feel_ every panting breath Pete takes, low against his belly. 

_He_ did that. _Patrick_ did that to Pete, has _that_ effect on Pete when he touches him, when he brings their bodies together. It's an incredible rush of power, that; and it mixes with the arousal and the affection already present in Patrick, turning into a devastating cocktail that takes all of Patrick's senses away.

Patrick lets go.

*

"Are we stupid for waiting this long?" Patrick asks once orgasms are achieved.

They've managed to clean up, lie down the _right way_ in Pete's bed, and are currently wrapped in each other's arms, stealing touches and kisses.

It would be brilliant, if Patrick's brain could just shut the fuck up.

"Did we lose fifteen years worth of— of— I don't know, happiness?"

"I don't think so," Pete says. "It's like… we wouldn't be the same people today if we haven't been through what we've been through, right? Just like we wouldn't have had a band if we hadn't taken a break. We _needed_ it, no matter how much it seemed like an unhappy ending at the time. And maybe, maybe those other versions of us wouldn't fit like this, or wouldn't make it if they got together? I dunno."

Patrick chews on that for a while.

He isn't sure he buys it, but it's definitely a better way of thinking than being bitter and regretful over years of 'lost time'.

"What if we'd never met at all, thought?" Pete says suddenly, and Patrick lifts his head to look at him in horror.

"Why would you _say_ something like that?" 

Pete shrugs. "I don't know. I think about stuff like that sometimes. How, no matter how bad things look at the moment, overall I'm a really lucky guy. Got my kid, my health, a band, I get to mess around with music for a living, I've got all my projects… I've got _you_ … I'm just really, _really_ lucky."

Pete follows the last part with a kiss to the tip of Patrick's nose, and Patrick wriggles said nose automatically, pondering Pete's words.

Put like that, he's right. They're both incredibly lucky.

He looks at Pete to tell him that, and sees a wicked grin spread across Pete's face.

He blinks in confusion, then realizes his mistake a split-second later.

Nose. That stupid interview.

Oh, _no_ , not _again_.

" _Don't_ —"

Pete is already talking.

"Oh, _I'm sorry_ , I shouldn't have touched your nose, I forgot you have _A_ _Thing_ about it — but look, I've got _two armpits_ _right here_ —"

He doesn't finish.

It's difficult to talk with a pillow over your head.

*

Joe and Andy, no matter how bleary-eyed or barely awake they are, _know_ as soon as they see them in the morning.

Joe snorts into his coffee, apparently content to leave it at that until more coherent.

Andy, on the other hand, gives them a Look.

It's enough to make Patrick shift nervously.

It's not a bad Look, precisely; it's more of a 'hmm' mixed with twin doses of caution and wariness.

"All good?" Pete asks from Patrick's left, and when Patrick looks at him in confusion, he sees an entire silent conversation passing between him and Andy.

Right. Patrick sometimes forgets that he doesn't have an exclusive on Pete's… _everything_. That Andy was there first, and they have a bond of their own, as special as the one Patrick has with Pete.

They all do, in fact, in various configurations and as a band. It's what kept them together for all these years.

"All good. Glad you guys are happy," Andy says finally, and draws them both into a hug.

"No fucking where I can see, or where my guitars can see, and we're good," Joe pipes up from behind them, chewing on something.

Patrick startles, then feels warmth spread from his neck upward as he snaps, "Shut up, Joe."

He sees Pete's face from the corner of an eye and lifts a finger in his direction.

"Don't even think about it, Pete."

"Great, that's settled," Andy says and claps his hands once, like a kindergarten teacher.

Then he ruins the impression by continuing to speak. "For the record, I think sex is great, and you should do it wherever and whenever. Don't let shame and social conventions get to you. In fact, I see a table free over there—"

Joe chokes on his mouthful of whatever, Pete cackles, and Patrick sighs in defeat.

"I hate you all."

*

Out of everything that's changed between them in the last few days, Patrick is for some reason fixated on the fact that now he gets to _touch Pete's face_.

"What is it with you, what's going on? What is this?" Pete teases, a crooked smile on his face, after Patrick clumsily managed to poke him in the eye, forehead, nostril, _and_ cheek in quick succession. "Is it like a fetish or—"

"Shut up, no it's not," Patrick snaps, and Pete laughs, stealing a quick kiss.

"Because I'm an open-minded guy, you can tell me, I won't laugh. A lot."

Patrick sighs, trying for exasperated and hitting infatuated instead.

"No, I just— Can you _stay still_ and —"

He sits up properly, faces Pete head-on and cups his cheeks.

There. Access to _everything_ from this position: the laugh lines, the eyebrows, the ears, the sensitive place behind the ears where Pete's jaw ends, the stubbly cheeks, the hair, the neck, the lips, the bridge of the nose...

"Hi," Patrick says, smile automatic and kind of helpless. Probably silly-looking, too.

He might be a little drunk on touch and _Pete_.

It's becoming a common occurrence.

"Hi," Pete replies, staying obediently still under Patrick's exploring fingers.

"Hi," Patrick whispers against his lips, once he's had his fill for now, fingertips tingling from all the different Pete landscapes they've explored.

Pete kisses back.

How amazing, that he gets to kiss Pete, and Pete _kisses him back_.

"Happy now? Are we over this weird phase?" Pete asks.

" _Never_ ," Patrick proclaims.

Dramatic or not, it's true.

And judging from the look of wonder on his face, Pete knows it, too.

Patrick doesn't mind him knowing, _at all_.

*

They're on their way to the next city, Patrick isn't even sure which one it is. The outside is dark and rainy, but inside the bus it's quiet, comfortable, and warm.

Patrick is picking out a melody on his guitar, a cover of a song he knows the music but not the lyrics to, and Pete is lying on his back on the other end of the couch, legs bent and his toes jammed under Patrick's thigh.

"Hey," Patrick says, a random thought intruding on his playing.

Pete drops his notebook on his chest and says, "Yeah?"

"There was an interview ages ago, back when we were starting out... You said we can read each other's minds but instead we fight constantly."

"Did I?"

"Yeah. It stuck with me for some reason. Still remember it after all this time."

"Huh," Pete says, neither here nor there. But Patrick can see his brain analyzing what he said.

He doesn't want to stir bad memories, there's a whole different point to this, so Patrick leans the guitar against the wall and crawls on top of Pete, earning himself a delighted grin and a hello kiss.

"I don't think that's true anymore," he says after a few minutes.

Hello kisses take time, after all.

"No, it's not," Pete agrees.

Patrick thinks on it some more, absently, as he takes advantage of Pete.

"I think I prefer how it is now," he concludes into their 'you're close enough to kiss so I'll do it because I can and we do that now' kiss.

"Me too," Pete says.

"Are even listening to me or just agreeing with me?"

"Yes, dear," Pete snarks in response, and Patrick bites his jaw in retaliation.

It distracts them both for a good ten minutes.

"Are we, like, telling people about this?" Pete says suddenly, mouth on Patrick's wrist — _who knew_ so many nerves were located _there_ — and Patrick blinks his brain into function.

"I mean, on the one hand, I despise the publicity that'll come with it. And it would be much easier to keep it private. But on the other, I have no intention of living a lie or hiding for the rest of my life," Patrick says.

He's not even aware of what he said until Pete asks, a wobble in his voice: "The rest of your life?"

_Oh._

Well.

It's not like it's not _true_.

Saying it, though is a terrifying free-fall of a jump, but.

_But._

It's _Pete_.

"Yeah," he says softly. "Yeah, Pete. The rest of my life. You think you'd be okay with that?"

" _Yes_ ," Pete says immediately, nodding without hesitation.

Patrick really, _really_ loves him, an amount _so great_ it's _immeasurable_.

"Think we're older and smarter now?" Patrick asks, later still, when they manage to un-stick their lips.

He's a little out of breath, and is it from the kissing or from the idea of a future full of this, of _Pete_ , he isn't sure.

"Older, definitely. Smarter, _eh_ ," Pete says with a smile.

Patrick laughs. "Yeah. What am I even thinking."

"I don't know what _you_ were thinking, but _I_ was thinking…" Pete trails off with a ridiculous eyebrow wriggle, and Patrick has no choice but to jump him and bite him again, this time in other places.

It works out _great_.

*

Pete bounces the ball off the wall for the millionth time, and while it's practice for his bad arm, it's kind of driving Patrick _insane_.

The supplements part of the recovery Patrick had no trouble with. Even though he had the urge to micromanage it, Pete is good with taking meds when it's not serious, and it's mostly herbal stuff, some calcium for the bones, and so on.

The damn ball, however, is _ruining Patrick's life_.

Case in point:

" _Oww_ ," Pete says somewhere in the middle of their fumbling, and Patrick's brain lets out a startled hiccup of an alarm.

"What what," he pants out as he pulls back, panicked.

Pete grins sheepishly, "Nothing, I just, like, overdid it with the bad hand today, it's all good."

" _Pete_ ," Patrick says, exasperated, "I _told you_ to take it easy with the ball, mmph—"

Lips.

Lips of Pete, attached to lips of Patrick.

_Mmmm._

This might get old soon, but for now Patrick enjoys the new way of ending their fights before they've even started.

He won't admit it to Pete, though.

He'd be completely insufferable.

*

The last show of the tour comes sooner than Patrick expected.

The venue was sold out months ago, the kids are already chanting, and they're as ready as they can be.

Pete still can't play, not for a show, but he's started practicing on his bass a little every day. Everything looks good according to the doctor, no lasting consequences or unforeseen complications.

Patrick still checks in with Pete every morning, though it's much easier to do it from right next to him in bed.

When it's a minute left until they walk on stage, Pete raises his almost fully healed left hand for their usual pre-show high-five. They all stumble and laugh through the weirdness of using their non-dominant hand, but do it anyway, of course. The four of them are nothing if not adaptable.

Patrick stares at Pete as Andy and Joe walk away; at how wired he is, how much he shines even though his anxiety is getting the best of him, and thinks:

 _Time for a new tradition_.

With only their crew around, Patrick barely hesitates — he pulls Pete in with a firm grip on the back of his head, careful of the guitar he's holding, and kisses the breath out of Pete's lungs.

Pete _gives_ , sinking into Patrick immediately, and it's the biggest hit of energy _ever_ , like pure sunshine rippling inside Patrick's veins.

Patrick can't stop the smile from breaking their kiss.

It's okay; there'll be more kisses later.

"Let's do this," he says.

Pete grins.

"Right behind you."

END

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr.](https://toorational.tumblr.com/)


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